


Show Me love, Show Me Love, Slow Motion

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band), Z.Tao (Musician)
Genre: College AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 22:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10795734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: Joonmyun really does like being a caretaker, really relishes in the opportunity to help—smother, Jongin calls it—and Tao, he just needs so much caring at this point.





	Show Me love, Show Me Love, Slow Motion

**Author's Note:**

> (Prompt #139)
> 
> warnings: drinking, drunk and consensual kissing and sex acts, "what are we" angst

Tao is fumbling with his card case, struggling with his three bags, backpack, cursing because the lady at Student Life had said that it’d probably be a little temperamental the first couple of days, but it should still _work_ —he needs it to. He slaps his card again, curses this time—Mandarin—when the card scanner blinks red, and he can distinctly feel the muscle ache and fatigue from the 5 hour flight, the 3 buses he’d taken, the hauling, the fumbling, the early morning race to the Residence Hall Association, Student Life building, then subsequent scramble back to his Residence Hall.

He feels like crying, just just just a little bit, but he tries again just for good measure, curses louder this time—English. _Fuck_. Tries again. _Shit, come on_. 

He jumps when a hand, a card—a working card joins his on the scanner. 

“It’s a little wonky,” the person says, and Tao has to look up to meet his gaze. His nametag says Residence Assistant Kris, and he grins—customer service wide—as he explains that it’s a little old and very picky, the entrance by the trees is honestly the best one to use. He’s new right, Kris can definitely help him out. It’s his job, don’t worry. 

Kris’ eyes are kind, voice kinder, and he lifts two of Tao’s bags easily, smiles again as he asks if this is it. Okay perfect. They won’t need to call another assistant. Kris can help him through the lobby to get his key just fine. 

Tao isn’t sure how warm or inviting his smile looks, but he injects as much feeling as he can into his “thank you” as he scrambles after Kris. 

His stride is long, chatter light as he weaves through the halls. He hops behind the counter when they reach the lobby, tells him about the things he can check out from the Residence Hall as he plops down on the rolling chair there: a vacuum, an iron, an ironing board, Sorry, Monopoly, Apples to Apples, Connect 4, Jenga, Guess Who?, Scrabble, puzzles, Uno, Hungry Hungry Hippos, Chess, Checkers, a couple of DVDs, a VCR but only for a max of three hours. 

“Edison,” Kris says as he scans his card, notes his room—105. 

“Edison,” Tao repeats, pauses. “Zitao.” 

Kris’ eyebrows shoot up, and he smiles again. Wider this time, gummy this time. His eyes crinkle with it. “Oh, are you Chinese?” 

“Yeah. ABC.”

“Sweet. Me, too.”

He makes to rise, probably help him again, help him more, but Tao shakes his head, and Kris settles back into his chair with a distinctive squeak. 

“I got this,” Tao reassures, and Kris returns his ID card, also hands a colorful handful of welcome brochures with information about special academic dates, Residence Hall events, mental health facilities on campus, a stapled copy of the Residence Hall contract, smaller handouts with tips on how to have a great first year, draft a successful roommate contract. 

“Just let me know if you need anything. Ask for Kris.” Kris pauses, leans back in his chair. “Zai jian.” 

 

Tao fumbles much more on his way to his room, but it’s thankfully on the first floor. And the door is already open, his presumed roommate already upending a box onto his bed. 

Exhausted, Tao drops his bags on the foot of the second bed, plops down face first on the mattress, noting sourly that he needs a pillow, sheets, a comforter, too. 

He sighs wearily into the vinyl, his muscles finally relaxing, bones melting into the surface—it's really been a long, long trip; he's really been through a lot today. Doesn’t even want to think of doing anything else, but he turns his head, his neck popping with the movement, smiles as wide and inviting as he can, flops his arm out for a handshake. 

“Your name is Jong—?”

“Jongin,” he completes, smiling, too, bending down to offer his hand. His grip is firm. He’s handsome, eyes warm, smile soft. “But only if you want to stay True to My Roots. John if you’re struggling.”

“Jongin,” Tao repeats. 

“And you’re Edison?”

“Yeah, Edison. Zitao. Tao.”

“What is that—Chinese?”

“Yeah.” 

“Neat.” Jongin stands again, plops back to his bed, tears barehanded through another box, empties it, too. He doesn’t sort through the contents—stationary, books, by the looks of it—tears instead through another. Clothing this time. 

“Our meal plans don’t kick in until Monday,” Jongin says—conversationally—as he gropes for another box, rips it open. There’s now a small mountain of college essentials on his bed. “Want to get pizza or something? I know a place nearby. Only $3 a slice.”

It’s close enough to walk, so they do. Tao orders three pepperonis, Jongin two pineapples, one extra cheese. 

Jongin is kinda quiet, probably a little shy, but nice to talk to, listens like he’s interested. So Tao talks about his family, his long, long trip here, how excited he is to finally start because he honestly has been stressing about this and wanting this for so long, you know. 

And Jongin contributes, too. He tells him about his major, his home, the girlfriend he had to break up with before moving here, then about his brother. He’s going here, too. He’s a third-year. Education major. 

“He wants to visit,” Jongin says around his straw, eyebrows pinching pensively as he sips. “He’ll probably try to visit a lot honestly.” He sighs, long-suffering and loud. “I hope it’s okay.”

Tao nods, and Jongin’s shoulders sag with relief. 

“He’ll probably be over a lot,” he continues. “He fusses, you know, calls me his baby brother even though he’s only 2 year older than me, is always trying to just _baby_ —but I’ll try to tell him to tone it down.”

 

They draft their roommate contract that night. Decide that visitors are welcome and without prior roommate approval but not overnight, Jongin that he doesn’t mind sharing his toaster or microwave so long as Tao doesn’t break them and cleans them after use, that they aren’t allowed to touch each other’s things without permission, that the noise level must be down between 7PM to 9PM for study hours and from 11PM to 8AM for sleep. 

Jongin has an extra blanket, and Tao sleeps on it, sure to add _blanket, comforter, sheets, pillow_ to the shopping list on his phone. 

He texts his parents that he’s arrived safely, tells them that he misses them but that he’s excited to start. His mother responds with emojis. His father with words of encouragement. 

Tao falls asleep with his phone on his face. 

 

Jongin knows another place, and they have pitas the next morning. Tao tuna to Jongin’s grilled chicken, two Cokes. 

“My brother’s wants to come over this afternoon,” Jongin says as his free hand fiddles with his plastic wrapper, folding and unfolding it. “He promises to bring food and some form of entertainment. Probably a movie rental or something.”

But they all agree to go shopping first instead, since Joonmyun has a car, and he's willing to help. They should capitalize while they can. 

They meet him by one of the oversized red balls outside the store. 

Joshua—Joonmyun, if you’re respecting his roots—offers his hand, smiling up at him. He’s wearing a striped sweater, khakis, and his eyes are bright and friendly behind the thick frames of his glasses, smile amiable and conversational as he comments on how pleasant the weather is, how glad he is to help. He’s handsome like Jongin, has his eyes kind of, his smile definitely, but not his height. 

And Jongin snorts teasingly when Joonmyun brags about his little brother, rising so Joonmyun has to stand on his tiptoes to ruffle his hair. 

“I came here first. This is my school,” he says matter of factly, dropping his hand and offering an even wider smile. It's smugger, too, all bright, straight teeth, more self assured like the persuasive hand he rests on Tao’s forearm. “A hand-me-down honestly.”

“And he’s very excited to remind _everybody_ of that fact,” Jongin gripes. 

Joonmyun still hasn't dropped his hand, the touch light as he meets Tao’s eyes, voice almost comically louder as he explains that Jongin has never been good at making his own decisions. He’s always got to bother his older, more experienced, more handsome brother, tells Tao that fuck what he’s heard, Joonmyun Kim is the best brother of the two. But come on, let's shop, Joonmyun will prove his point. 

Once inside, Tao fills his shopping cart with only the very bare essentials: three sets of cheap hangers, a towel, a shower caddy, a family-sized bottle of shampoo, body wash, body lotion, hair gel, a washcloth, laundry detergent, fabric softener, notebooks, highlighters, pens, a pillow, sheets, a striped blue and green comforter that Joonmyun helps him pick out. 

Joonmyun hums approvingly as he checks his cart, and Jongin drops another box of Blueberry Poptarts into his. 

Laden with shopping bags, they get a Redbox film, two Little Caesar’s pepperoni pizzas, haul them all back to their shared room. 

They prop Jongin’s laptop on his bed, sit crossed-legged on the floor as they watch the film then an episode of Planet Earth on Jongin’s laptop, polish off their pizzas, wipe their hands on paper towels they’ve stolen from the bathroom. 

But they have had a long enough sibling bonding Jongin decides, shooing Joonmyun away when he suggests they order Indian takeout for dinner and watch more episodes. It’s been so long since they hung out. He’s missed him. 

Joonmyun insists on a one-armed hug that has Jongin blushing, squeezes Tao’s shoulder in goodbye, too. 

Jongin sighs loudly as Joonmyun stumbles into his shoes at the entry way but spares him another disdainfully fond goodbye. 

And Joonmyun’s smile is radiant, blinding even in the low light. Bright and charming, his eyes still glittering behind his glasses.

 

Tao gets a WhatsApp contact request that night from Suho Kim. It’s a picture of Joonmyun, sans glasses, with an oversized black sun hat perched on his head, sunscreen smeared on his nose, the Santa Monica Ferris Wheel glittering behind him. 

“It was his nickname,” Jongin says when he sees Tao staring at his phone, leans over to look at his notification. “It means protector in Korean. It was _supposed_ to be a pejorative.” His phone beeps, too. “Oh he created a group chat.” 

 

Jongin asks if he wants to watch another episode together. They wind up watching four, pausing only long enough for Jongin to riffle for singles in his Sailormoon wallet for some chips, a Coke they split. 

Jongin calls it at 11PM, and Tao uses his new shower caddy, body wash, shampoo, shower pouf to scrub himself squeaky clean, finds Jongin already readying himself for bed, lights off.

Tao stumbles towards his closet, hangs his towel, tugs on his sweats, hurriedly towels off his hair. 

“I almost didn’t apply here, you know,” Jongin starts, an abrupt declaration as he tugs off his shirt and pants, throws them in his Hello Kitty hamper, crawls under the covers in just his boxers. “Even though it's kinda my dream school. Just knowing how he can—” Jongin exhales loudly. “I know it isn’t on purpose, and I know it's because he loves me. But it’s just so much being his little brother sometimes, you know?”

“I don’t know...he seems nice,” Tao says. 

Jongin turns audibly, with a flutter of blankets, and in the faint green glow of his alarm clock, Tao can just barely make out the sharp angle of Jongin’s arched brow and the wrinkle in his nose. “He’ll be really happy to hear you say that.” 

 

Tao wakes up early the next morning, goes to the bookstore on Sunday‐very, very last minute, and Joonmyun spots him, sidles up to him with his little green handbasket, grinning winningly as Tao frowns at the stickered prices on textbooks. Buying is probably best, but renting is cheapest though not by much. 

“I have to buy books, too,” Joonmyun reveals, leaning forward conspiratorially, straining on his tiptoes to whisper it. And Joonmyun, Tao decides, in addition to being handsome, charming, he’s also cute. “Left it for last minute even though I should probably know better. Let's get them together.”

Tao’s schedule is folded, heavily wrinkled, and he attempts to smooth out the crinkles. It’s a full course load. Stats, intro level Anthropology, English, intro level Medical Terminology, an Arts of Asia course for his Humanities requirement. 

Joonmyun syncs his steps with his, says he can help, but it's an easy enough task, the books separated already by subject and course title. A silent task, too. Quick also.

Afterwards, on their way to the cashiers, Tao lingers near the college sweaters, monogrammed neckties, decorative mugs. Biting his lower lip, he does quick mental math—if he lives on _just_ his meal plan for the next 2 months and doesn’t spend any extra on any luxuries then maybe he can—

Joonmyun grabs a medium, holds it up to Tao’s chest, wrinkles his nose, then gets a large instead. He places it in his own basket, continues on his way towards the front of the store. 

Tao protests soundly, but Joonmyun waves his concerns away. 

“Just consider it a welcome gift. My little brother, he never lets me get these things for him.”

He pays with his card, then stuffs it into Tao’s too-small bookstore bag, insisting, saying he’ll be offended if Tao refuses.

And Joonmyun walks him back to the dorm, steps matched with his as he offers to show him the best places on campus, cheap but still worth it, you know since he’s been here so long. He can help Tao get acquainted. He can treat, too. He likes treating. 

And yeah, Tao can see it, how that insistence can be frustrating, be read as ingratiating or patronizing or just fucking smothering and unnecessary, but he invites him inside nonetheless. And Joonmyun plops back on his brother’s bed, splayed open as he tells him that really, anything that Tao needs, Joonmyun can help. He _likes_ helping. 

“Likes being overbearing,” Jongin counters. But he sits on his desk and smiles at him, and Joonmyun makes himself even comfortable on Jongin’s bed, burrowing into his sheets. His socked feet drag small rainbows over the painted brick wall. 

Voice muffled, he argues that, just one more time before school starts and they’re too busy, they should hang out. He can order a movie on Amazon. They can get takeout. Come on, he’ll pay. Chinese, he even picked a flyer off the bulletin board down the hall. 

Tao sits up at that, and Joonmyun turns to look at him. 

“Do you like Chinese food?”

“Ah yeah., I’m Chinese. I was born in Qingdao.” 

“Oh, I went to Hong Kong once. For a senior trip. It was amazing.” 

Qingdao is several hours by train, fewer hours by plane, but he nods. 

“Yeah, it is. I miss it.”

“It's not the same, but there's a Chinatown near the city. If you take the Green bus by the bookstore, it’ll take you right there. My friend Zhou Mi says that if you close your eyes, it's almost like being home.”

Tao nods again. 

And even if it’s probably not real Chinese, sorry, Zitao, but American Chinese food won’t ever be as good as real Chinese he knows, Tao calls. The man on the phone switches seamlessly into Mandarin, and it feels a little bit—though not nearly enough—like home. 

“Wow,” Joonmyun breathes after he’s hung up, and Tao tries valiantly not to flush, bowing his head to just hide it instead. “Your voice gets so deep when you speak Chinese.” 

Jongin snorts unattractively. And Joonmyun flushes, too. Tao peeks up in time to see him tug on his ear, laugh around the blush. And wow okay, it’s really endearing. Wow okay, he’s really fucking handsome. 

They eat braised beef noodles, split an order of fried rice and dumplings, settle on the floor to watch serial killer documentaries. 

But Jongin has a 9 AM lecture, and doesn’t Joonmyun have classes, too. He should leave and prep for his first day of the semester, too. Leave Jongin and Tao to their own devices, their own preparations.

 

Tao finally gets fully unpacked and spends a good hour struggling to connect to wifi. He uses it only to update his Facebook, his Weibo, accept friend requests from Joonmyun, Jongin, Kris, a group invitation to his residence hall page, message his parents. 

He sets up his desk, puts up a picture of his family, borrows tape from Jongin to hang up his schedule on the wall over his desk.

 

Tao’s first class isn’t until Tuesday, 11 AM. Arts of Asia. Then Stats at 3PM. He explores campus on Monday, uses his meal plan for the first time, eats his sub on the quad outside the Liberal Arts building and watches other students amble around campus. Wednesday, he has Medical Terminology at 3PM, English at 5, a lab at 7PM, Tao scarfing down a bagel sandwich, then a bean burrito as he races around campus. 

He’s panting by the time, he settles in the hard, uncomfortable chair for his last class of the day. 

His desk partner, Lu Han—call me Lu gege—grimaces at the equation on his worksheet, then sighs, then nearly tears a hole through his page from how hard he erases. He’s a second year. Physical Therapy major, too, but recently declared. He’d thought, at the beginning that maybe he’d want to be a Korean major— _don’t ask_ —and wasted his first year. It’s fine. This is his true path, and it suits him so much more. But fuck, why is Tao’s answer different than his? Is he wrong or is Tao? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Tao adds him on Facebook, accepts his phone number, agrees that they should study together. Two heads, they should be better than one, after all. 

 

He meets Jongin for dinner at the mess hall. It’s supposed to be bonding, them alone, investing in their roommate relationship, Jongin had called it, but they’re joined by Chanyeol—as Jongin introduces in a whisper—who has English Comp with Jongin and invites himself over to their table, his tray rattling as he plops down across from Tao. 

He talks around his spoonful of macaroni and cheese, says that they’re having free pizza at a Philosophy symposium tomorrow night if Jongin is interested, notes Tao, asks if he’s Korean, too. Tao shakes his head. 

“Vietnamese?”

“No.”

“Japanese?”

“Chinese.”

He purses his lips thoughtfully. They’re glossy with grease, and his hair is unkempt, the stubble on his chin and over his lip patchy and dark. But his eyes are bright, expressive, and the smile he offers Tao afterwards charming. 

He’s majoring in music education, he tells him. He wants to be a high school music teacher. He had this Piano teacher in 9th grade, Mr. Lee, and he really changed his life, really helped him find an outlet for all of his feelings. Chanyeol wants to change lives the same way, he tells him, his dark eyebrows pinched with emotion. 

“Also,” he adds with a smirk. “Chicks dig musicians.” 

He grabs another two plates of food, fills all potential silences with his voice, observations about campus, about the student clubs around the area, about the movies he's excited to watch, upcoming concerts in their area. He’s gonna make the most of this experience. 

And Chanyeol grins winningly, whispers conspiratorially as he wraps, stuffs cheese rolls in his backpack. 

“He seems nice,” Tao tries after he’s raced away. Jongin stirs his own carbonara pensively. 

“Do you say that about everyone?” he asks. The words are sharp, maybe even accusatory, but his voice is soft. 

“No.”

 

Tao cracks open his textbooks as soon as he gets home—cultivating good study habits, his academic advisor had _advised_ him during their meeting. He taps his pencil restlessly against his desk as he wills the information synthesized, wills himself smarter, more prepared, better, better, better at this. 

 

He’s exhausted, mentally if not also physically by the time that Friday afternoon—free, free, free—rolls around. 

 

Though his research paper isn’t for several weeks, Tao heads to the library that Friday afternoon, nonetheless. Another positive study habit. He’d scrawled notes on his notebook after receiving his syllabus, performed a preliminary search on Google Scholar, tabbed pages in his text book last night, and now looks through the online card catalog on one of the school computers. 

He bumps into Joonmyun as he rounds the Chinese History section of the library, fingers skipping absently over the leather spines, nearly doesn’t recognize him. He isn't wearing his glasses, and his eyes are so dark, so big. His smile even bigger. Tao is briefly distracted by the stark, striking contrast of his dark sweater, pale skin, dark, dark eyes, blinks and smiles in return when Joonmyun insists on helping him find his books, then helping him carry them, too, reveals that he’s also taking a class about China. But his is History. He wants to write on the Warring States period. How are classes going, though? How has adjusting to college life been? Does he want to get a smoothie together? 

Tao declines, and Joonmyun smile is sadder, but no less charming, making his cheeks bunch at the corners, his eyelashes curl just so. 

 

Jongin is organizing when Tao returns, stacking his textbooks on his desk, setting up his whiteboard calendar. 

“I met Joonmyun at the library,” he says. “He asked about you, tried to buy me a smoothie from the Jamba Juice there.”

Jongin wrinkles his nose, adjusts his whiteboard slightly, sticks his magnetic markers on the side. 

“He’s _always_ trying to adopt my friends. It’s like, he can’t have his own. Like he just has to be friends with _everyone_.” He sighs dramatically, tilts his head back and scrunches his eyebrows at the ceiling, then turns back to Tao, his voice abruptly steady, gaze serious. “I had you first, okay? You’re not allowed to like him more than me. _I’m the better Kim_.” 

“I won’t,” Tao promises. “You are,” he adds. 

Jongin smiles. 

 

There’s a LGBT resource center on campus, their first meeting that night. 

They stick nametags on their chests. Tao’s goes by Edison, feels distinctly out of sorts until a boy—a Chinese boy—settles in the chair besides him. His name is Jackson. He’s gay, too, and he has a boyfriend. “He’s kind of amazing,” Jackson informs him, showing him a picture of them, faces squished into the frame, the background a Universal Studios globe. 

They exchange numbers, and Jackson adds him on Facebook. His sexuality is private, as is his relationship status. His boyfriend is on his friend’s list, but just as a friend. 

Tao feels understood.

 

Tao accepts the private group invitation on Facebook, clicks “Maybe” on an LGBT mixer, then changes it to “Can’t Go” when Jackson texts him to invite him to laser tag. 

They agree on Saturday, after a hearty breakfast of champions at the local Dennys. They all get Grand Slams. Jackson lovingly shovels hash browns in his boyfriend's mouth, grins as everyone—Tao included—gags. 

Jackson’s team gets utterly slaughtered, and as he limps back to his barracks, defeated, Mark—his boyfriend—nurses his wounded ego with an indulgently loud kiss to his temple, a declaration that it’s just a game after all. 

Tao’s stomach twists with longing, and something like sadness settles deep, deep in his gut even though he’d won. 

They go to the mess hall afterwards. 

Tao sits besides Jinyoung. Around hamburgers, mashed potatoes, pizza, frozen yogurt, they talk strategy, how to _guarantee_ that Jackson keeps losing. 

 

Tao’s phone beeps with a WhatsApp notification as he treks back to his Residence Hall. Joonmyun saying he wants to meet up, see how they’ve done this first week. What do they feel like? Subway? Pizza? Vietnamese? The food court has a little of everything. They should meet up. 

Tao turns around midwalk. 

They settle for subs, eat together huddled around the plastic table made for two. 

Joonmyun talks about his classes again, his friends, ask after theirs. Their worries, too. Their troubles, too. 

Jongin calls him the most smothering hyung imaginable. A school counselor, lifestyle coach hyung. 

“Hyung?” Tao repeats. 

“Yeah,” Jongin says. “Korean honorifics. Do you know any?”

“I heard...oppa?” he tries, and Joonmyun face pinches in a clear attempt not to laugh. Jongin has no such reservations, but he at least covers his mouth and apologizes immediately afterwards, then takes a long, long sip from his soft drink to clear his through. 

“It’s hyung. Boy-boy is hyung. Girl-boy is oppa. You’re his dongsaeng.” A pause. “His hoo—”

“Hoobae,” Joonmyun finishes. “But you really don’t need to know that. Hyung works. Jongin calls me hyung. You can, too.” 

“Joonmyun hyung,” he tries, and he likes how big Joonmyun—Joonmyun hyung’s—smile becomes. 

“Call him Joonmyunnie when you want to be extra disgusting, extra sweet,” Jongin advises. “Or extra annoying.” 

 

His classes are going well, he sends his parents, repeats when they Skype on Sunday. Balancing his laptop on his arm, Tao gives a 360 tour of his bedroom, then the hallway, introduces them to Jongin, pads to the lobby to introduce them to his RA Kris, too, promises them that he’s doing well, that he’ll tell them if he’s not. That yes, he misses them, too. 

 

Joonmyun insists on just one more meal together. 

Pasta, this time. 

And it becomes a tradition of sorts. 

Family dinners, Jongin calls them when it’s all three of them. Hyung dates when it’s just Tao and Joonmyun, Jongin and Joonmyun. 

They have burgers, burritos, gyros, subs, pho, hotpot, grilled cheese, macaroni and cheese, tacos, frozen yogurt, and Joonmyun always pays—whenever they don’t use meal plans, that is.

 

Laser tag becomes routine, too. As do visits to the gym in their Residence Hall. Skype conversations with his parents. 

His classes get underway, time becomes scarcer.

And there’s a certain monotony after a while, after the first week at least. Study, class, shower, decompress, eat, hang out with Jackson, have a “hyung” date and family dinner, study, class, shower, decompress, eat, hang out with Jackson, have a “hyung” date and family dinner, Skype his parents. Lather, rinse, repeat. 

 

Jongin’s classes have gone underway, too, and Tao sees less and less of him. Jongin is always hunched uncomfortably over his books when he does see him, his highlighter clenched tightly in his fist. He pauses periodically to slam his head against the cheap imitation wood. 

Tao relates. 

 

Three weeks in, Jongin charms Joonmyun into buying them alcohol. For sibling bonding, he argues. A close hyung-dongsaeng relationship, more trust between them all, come on. 

Joonmyun brings soju—so Tao can experience a Real Korean Intoxication—tiny little shot glasses with their school logo stamped on the glass, vending machine soda to serve as chasers. 

It’s Tao’s first time, but he likes the way it burns going down, likes also the way that Joonmyun—bespectacled and flushed—watches him afterwards, wide, dark, pretty eyes trained on his mouth. Emboldened, intrigued, confused, Tao licks his lips, and watches Joonmyun follow the movement. 

He takes another three shots in quick, quick succession, loving it when Jongin whistles, impressed, when Joonmyun whispers something reverent about how he’s never seen someone take so _well_ to soju. 

The alcohol makes him dizzy—dizzier—with fragile, vulnerable, vulnerable desire, makes him feel powerful and reckless with it. 

It’s dangerous. Dangerous. Dangerous. 

A bad idea all around, but college, he’s heard, is made for the _worst_ ideas. 

And he lets it thrum through his boneless body.

“No, the floor,” Jongin insists when Joonmyun makes to spread himself across Jongin’s bed. His voice rises too high, falls too sharp. “You’re not allowed my bed. It’s _mine_ , hyung.” 

Joonmyun tilts his head back, exposing the pale line of his throat, groaning loudly as his muscles tense and release, back pops. 

And Tao is floored by the heady, _unmistakable_ spark of attraction, the desire to drag his tongue over the contours of his throat. 

Oh, ok. 

Oh, fuck. 

 

This is the worst idea that Tao has ever had. 

He drinks more, more, more. 

 

The next morning, he feels the vague, vague ache of too much alcohol in his temples, an unpleasant nausea rolling around in his stomach, the weight of suddenly acknowledged, undesirable feelings. And Jongin looks too much like him, sounds like him too, honestly, and Tao just needs his space. 

He lingers by the lobby, deciding whether it’s worth it to get a 300 piece puzzle, until Kris catches his gaze. He acknowledges him with a wide, inviting grin. “Do you like Scrabble?” he asks, a non sequitur. 

Kris is majoring in Elementary education, he tells him. Third grade. He has an open textbook on his table, but he climbs out of his desk to speak with him, holding the game already, ushering Tao a nearby table already. 

Tao blinks, and Kris settles down in the chair across from him. 

“It counts as performing my duties, so long as you promise that you _need_ it,” he says. 

“I need it,” Tao parrots. 

Then Kris and Tao are setting up the Scrabble tiles on one of the tables near the front desk, in view of it, in case Kris has to answer calls or handle any other issues. 

Tao helps Kris shuffle the Scrabble tiles. The wood clinks against the glass table. 

“Girl troubles?” Kris ventures. 

Tao swallows but nods. “How did you know?”

Kris smiles ruefully. 

“It’s always either girl troubles or grade troubles. But I’ve seen you carrying library books, so—”

He taps his temple, then drops his hand again to shuffle the tiles. 

“A jie,” Tao says after several beats. “She—she likes taking care of me, but I don’t know if…I don’t know if it’s because she’s my jie.” 

Kris nods understandingly, sets three tiles down. 

“Oh, that’s rough.” 

“And it’s nice that she wants to be my friend, you know. Nice that she takes care of me, but it still makes me think that maybe…”

Kris narrows his eyes at his tiles, sets down _reflexology_. “And you don’t want to ask her?”

“If she doesn’t feel the same, I mean, it would just make her so uncomfortable, and she’d probably...stop treating me so nicely.”

“You have a point. I think just wait it out for more clues. Can decide then if it’s worth it.” 

They discuss more mundane topics—Tao’s classes, _again_ , how he’s adjusting to his first month, upcoming events in their Residence Hall including the quiz bowl and multi cultural food night and the sex ed workshop that the RAs have been organizing—finish the game.

 

More clues, more red herrings come in the form of a “How is everyone doing?” message in their Group chat. Then another asking them to make themselves decent, he’s bringing donuts and coffee. 

They eat in their room. 

And it really makes sense, when Tao starts to think about it, ruminating as he rubs he wipes his sugar-glazed hands on tiny white Krispy Kreme napkins. 

Joonmyun really does like being a caretaker, really relishes in the opportunity to help—smother, Jongin calls it—and Tao, he just needs so much caring at this point. 

 

But Joonmyun is busy, too. Absent, too. Thankfully or unfortunately. 

 

By Friday, Jongin and Tao have exhausted their meal plans, eat microwave burritos off plastic plates they steal from the kitchen. 

There’s a Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen movie playing on TV, and they’re too lazy to change it. 

It’s still playing when Joonmyun joins them a good hour later, Indian takeout in tow. 

He sits against the bed, between Tao’s legs, head on his thigh, melts into it when Tao runs his fingers—absently, compulsively, helplessly—through his hair. Awareness and desire and confusion prickle beneath his skin, and he struggles to regulate his breathing, feign attention at the film on screen. 

Oh, ok. 

Oh, fuck. 

 

Cycle, cycle, cycle. Lather, rinse, repeat. 

 

Upon Kris’ prompting, Tao attends the workshops, events that he can. 

The Sex Ed workshop, as the flyers advertise, is LGBT+ inclusive. Also there’s free pizza. Tao sees Chanyeol again, doesn’t ask for clarification as he inhales four slices, nods along to the presentation. 

Tao leaves with a multicolored sleeve of condoms, 3 slices of pizza, 4 pamphlets about various clinics around campus and the city, information about free HIV testing. 

 

The multicultural food night is a week later, and Chanyeol invites himself over, though it’s a closed event. Only for this hall. He sidles up next to Jongin, fingers around his elbow, chin on his shoulder. 

There are powerpoint presentations put on by the various student groups around campus, context given for the kebabs, sopes, samosas, japchae, dolma, donkatsu, frybread that they wind up eating. 

Tao gets extra servings of horchata, mingles with other people in his Hall. Finds in Minho, a work out buddy, in Gongchan a study partner. 

And he joins the quiz bowl that next Sunday with Jongin, his friend from dance Taemin, and they win a $100 giftcard for the campus bookstore, a free small coffee from the campus bakery. 

There’s a 90’s party the next day, but it only advertises a cheese platter. And Tao makes guilty eye contact with Baekhyun before stealing a handful of toothpicks and racing back to his room. There are only a handful of students as is, their heads bobbing awkwardly along to the Backstreet Boys song blasting from the speakers. 

Tao is on the first floor, and the sound filters through somehow as he cracks open the spine on his library book. 

 

They have a long weekend for Labor Day. Tao takes the bus to Chinatown. The restaurant auntie piles extra dumplings on his plate and pinches his cheeks as she tells him about how he’s the _perfect_ age for her daughter. 

Tao sits on a bench outside the dragon archway, closes his eyes as advised, and it almost is the same. Almost good enough. 

He comes back with mooncakes for the dorm, a smaller case for Joonmyun. On a whim, he buys him a woven bracelet with his Chinese zodiac, Jongin a phone charm. 

The brothers react the same to their gifts. Same smile, same hug, same words of gratitude. But the difference in the way that Tao’s heart reacts, it’s jarring. 

 

It makes it worse, almost, admitting his feelings, allowing himself to wallow in them fully. They’re too sharp and too pronounced and too perfect to ignore now, and they inject every interaction between them with sudden, breathtaking meaning.

How often Joonmyun texts _him_ —not the group chat, how even though he’s so busy, he always asks to see him, ruffles his hair, touches his hand, smiles at him like he’s the only person in the world, like he’s his favorite person in the world. 

And oh, in times of dismayed desperation, it makes him feel important or special or treasured even though he knows he _isn't_ , and oh, it’s heavy and confusing and so easy to confuse for something more, he thinks or rationalizes or hopes. 

It’s easy to want it to be something more.

There’s a certain fatalism or inevitability to his attraction, to his feelings, to the way his heart thuds with the desire for _more_. 

 

The autumn chill creeps upon them, slow and quiet. The leaves start to change colors, and Tao starts wearing his sweater—the sweater Joonmyun bought him, the one he'd gotten for him as a brother. 

Tao tries, succeeds in part, on not dwelling on the confusing mix of emotions it inspires. 

Friday night, Joonmyun wears his college sweater, too. 

“Couple clothing,” Jongin notes, and Joonmyun laughs. His elbow nudges Tao’s waist as he does. 

They get hotpot this time. Joonmyun tells him all the ingredients in Korean, asks Tao to say them in Chinese. 

His cheeks are slightly flushed, and Tao doesn’t know if from shyness or from the biting breeze outside, doesn’t know which one he prefers. 

Joonmyun’s fingers brush his knuckles as they walk back, and Tao feels another potent, potent flare of attraction, swallows it down, down, down. 

 

Joonmyun messages them about the weekly movie night at the school auditorium when they get home. It's ET this week.

The movies are free, but drinks and snacks aren’t. Joonmyun always buys them both. Buys them this time, too, as they squeeze together into their seats. 

Tao is in the middle, fingernails drumming restlessly against his arm rest, jerking any time Joonmyun’s arm brushes his, too. 

He cries. Joonmyun and Jongin do, too, walk back to their dorm room and dissect just _exactly_ why it’s such a fucking classic. 

 

It’s a weekly affair. And that becomes routine, too. 

Joonmyun is actively smothering them both now, Jongin says, but save for the occasional comment, Jongin doesn’t seem to mind. 

And Tao definitely doesn’t. 

He likes it, spending time with him like this, too—alone with him like this, too, when Joonmyun insists on going alone even if Jongin can’t come. 

It’s the second week of September, a comedy—Airplane— this time. And Joonmyun’s arm brushes against his—so _much_ —as he curls forward in laughter. It makes his nerve ending sing, makes his heartbeat stutter, and Tao’s hand tingles every time Joonmyun’s greasy fingers brush against his over their large popcorn. 

He walks him home, glancing up at him periodically with the moon in his eyes, and Tao, he thinks there's really no helping his feelings, really no chance of fixing it. 

 

Tao continues to cultivate healthy study habits, healthy social habits, too, throws himself full-force into his college experience.

“Chanyeol and I, we’re gonna go to a Korean restaurant tonight,” Jongin says, propping his legs on his bed frame as he squints up at his phone. You’re welcome to come.”

Chanyeol, he’s so smotheringly, antagonizingly flirtatious—touching Jongin’s arms, shoving lettuce wraps in his mouth, kicking his legs beneath the table, scooping extra food onto his plate—very obviously interested even if Jongin doesn’t read it that way or doesn’t want to, flushing darkly and changing the subject later that night when Tao asks if they’re...well you know something more. 

Tao doesn’t press it. 

Jongin looks grateful. 

 

That next week, as Tao hunches over his coursework, erasers already poised for correction, Jongin leaves for a Goodwill haul with Chanyeol, asks if he wants to join. He doesn’t, but he wishes them luck, and Chanyeol brags, all breezy and loud, that he definitely won’t need it. He’s a natural, after all. 

Tao is still working on the same set—angsting over it, though, when he hears them—hears Chanyeol—grunting in the hallway three hours later. 

Jongin holds the door open for him, asks Tao to clear off their shared desk as Chanyeol stumbles inside carrying the best fucking find, really, the deal of the decade. 

It’s an old TV, oversized, ugly, stained with the residue from old peeled off skateboarding and Pokemon stickers. 

“It looks a little old.” 

“It was $7,” Chanyeol argues, panting as he hefts it on their desk. “It has a VCR attachment.”

Chanyeol also found a lime green suit jacket, Toy story figurines, an Etch a Sketch, a Furby. His Goodwill hauls are always legendary. 

They have to run to the bookstore for a cable cord but are otherwise able to set up their television, run to the local pizzeria to get an order of meal plan wings and soft drinks

They watch an episode of Nova together, Chanyeol cross-legged on the floor, Jongin and Tao on their beds. 

It’s Tuesday night, and Jongin has a 9 AM lecture, really has to study for his History class, but he seems hesitant to kick Chanyeol out, much more hesitant than he’s ever been to kick Joonmyun out. 

So it falls on Tao, who yawn theatrically at 9PM, says that he’s exhausted, and he’s sorry, but he’s a light sleeper, can’t sleep with lights or sounds, sorry, can Chanyeol leave. 

He can, and he does. 

 

“So,” Jongin starts, looking up from his phone, leveling Tao with one of those rare, but potent steady, steady glances. “They’re having a stoplight party this weekend at that one club near the movie theatre. I’m thinking of going? You don’t have a girlfriend, right?”

Tao pauses, swallows. “I’m gay,” he says. And Jongin widens his eyes briefly in surprise but then softens then in understanding. 

“Oh that’s cool. Joonmyun hyung, he—you know—he is, too. Well, he likes boys, too. Likes both.”

“Like bisexual?”

“Yes.” 

Fuck, that just makes it _worse_. “Oh,” he says. 

“Please don’t get a crush on him, though.” 

Jongin laughs as he says it, so Tao laughs, too. 

“So, yes? No?”

“Yes. Yes. Let’s.”

 

Jongin and Chanyeol come over, and they pregame. Soju again, but also vodka that Chanyeol had bought off an upperclassman in his major. 

This will be a good idea for more bonding, but also a chance to meet someone else. Tao pulls on his tightest pair of jeans, a Jade bracelet on his wrist. Green. Go Ahead. Take me. Take me. Take me. 

Jongin is wearing a tight, tight tank top beneath his hoodie, criminally tighter—tighter pants. Chanyeol, his awful, awful green suit jacket, a pair of white skinny jeans. Joonmyun another striped sweater, no glasses. 

The burn this time, it's more familiar, no less sharp  
, no less hazily, dizzyingly pleasant and warming and perfect. Dangerous, too. Reckless, too. 

Tao is thrumming with it by the time they blink blearily at the bouncer, fingers tremblings around their state IDs, hands turned over so their hands can be stamped with big, black x’s. 

And it’s the alcohol sloshing in his stomach, the pulse of the strobe light painting the cramped, smoky room in swatches of pale blue, the pulse of heavy bass rattling through his bones, the pulse of heavy, heavy, half-formed desire coursing through his veins when he catches Joonmyun’s eyes. 

Tao is very drunk, and Joonmyun is very handsome, very charming, really fucking _hot_ even dancing so awkwardly like that. Too hard and too clumsy and completely off-beat. He’s wearing a green bracelet, too, available, too, into men, too, drunk, too, and it’s easier now to want him, easier to read it as a clue how he saunters over to him. 

“Dance with me,” he urges, sliding closer, and Jongin shakes his head, waving him because he can _definitely_ do better than his fucking dorky hyung. 

Closing his hands around Tao’s wrist, Jongin assures Tao that he can do better, too. There are hot guys here, too. He’s sure of it, what’s his type. 

But Joonmyun’s fingers around Tao’s wrist are small and warm and persuasive, and his eyes and smile and presence so bright and warm and perfect and vibrant and beautiful and irresistible. And Joonmyun, he’s so unnervingly handsome and charming. 

Joonmyun’s hands slide around his waist, settle there small and tight and warm and perfect, and even with the teasing glint of laughter in Joonmyun’s bright, bright eyes, Tao’s mind is reduced to a litany of _yes_ and _please_ and _more more more_. The songs melts into one another, the alcohol sloshes, strobe light streaks, bass rattles, desire races and builds and builds and builds, but Joonmyun’s hands remain there, his eyes, too, his mouth, his laughter, the breathlessly perfect sway of his small hips, the glisten of sweat along the contours of his throat, the collarbone that peek out from his sweater. And all too soon, Tao too dazed and dizzy and desperate is begging his Joonmyunnie hyung to take him home, please. 

Joonmyun shoves a 20 in Jongin’s pocket—call a cab, Jonginnie, don’t you _dare_ take a ride from anyone that insists that they’re still good to drive—before pulling Tao along. 

Chanyeol bounds over then, a flash of neon green fabric and denim, and Tao spares them a raised eyebrow as Chanyeol wraps one of his long, winding arms around Jongin’s waist. 

 

Steps in sync, Tao and Joonmyun walk back to campus, get a set of Jack in the Box tacos a piece, an Orange Soda, an order of fries on the way. Joonmyun pays with his card, and they stumble back in the general direction of Tao’s Residence Hall, eat the food sprawled across the dewy grass, beneath the inky black sky.

It’d be romantic—even more romantic—Tao thinks, if they could see the stars. It’d feel like an even more private, even more beautiful moment. 

Joonmyun separates their trash from recycling, stumbles giggling with him towards the big, blue bins around campus. Then to the door, shushing him when Tao squawks about how Joonmyun’s hand had brushed his hip and it’d _tickled_. Then towards Tao’s hallway, past an exhausted-looking Jonghyun, finally at his door. 

Joonmyun pauses there. He has to tilt up to see him, Tao down, but when their gazes intersect, it’s impossible for him to look anywhere else. His hands tighten around his room key, the metal biting into his skin as he’s fucking _pinned_ by Joonmyun’s dark, dark eyes, his furrowed eyebrows, his startling beauty. 

Joonmyun reaches out shaky, slow, his fingers stumbling drunkenly down Tao’s face, over his throat. Tao swallows thickly, and Joonmyun laughs breathlessly and self deprecatingly as he watches the movement. “I’m not drunk enough to be doing this,” he says, and he drags the pad of his thumb over the swell of Tao’s bottom lip. 

The featherlight pressure has him swallowing a gasp.

“But you’re so—so...”

And Tao isn’t drunk enough either, not enough to dull the excruciatingly perfect, fleeting, fleeting sensation of trembling skin on trembling skin. He exhales shakily, and he can taste the tension in Joonmyun’s breath, feel it crackling in the awful space between them. Joonmyun’s fingers finally, finally falls away. 

“Joonmyun,” Tao says, catches himself. “Joonmyunnie hyung.” 

And then Joonmyun is tipping forward, slow, slow, slow, but somehow still distressingly fast fast fast, and Tao is dizzy on the lingering, lingering sensation of trembling skin on trembling skin, of Joonmyun _kissing_ him. Tender, exquisitely soft, unnervingly perfect, and Tao, Tao is winding his arms around Joonmyun’s small, slight, slight waist, kissing back with all he has, all he feels, all he wants and needs. 

 

It's a disembodied, ringing laugh—drunken and shrill—that has them pulling apart. Joonmyun apologizing, Tao scrambling to leave.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Hee stumbles to the showers instead, barely gets the stall door open, his body bent before he vomits. 

 

The sharp, sharp slash of bright, bright light cutting across his prone eyelids is what wakes him, then the resounding echo of Jongin’s alarm, the deep, deep rasp of his groan.

Last night was a mistake for him, too, obviously. An overindulgence, too. 

Jongin looks utterly haggard when Tao manages to peel his eyelids open enough to regard him, sleepy and miserable and pained. “I want to die,” he states simply, scrunching his eyes up at the ceiling. “I can’t live if living is like this. You can have the TV.” 

Hesitant, soft knocking at the door has them both shuffling out of their beds. 

They’re scared—or at least Tao is scared—that it’s for underage drinking, assuming already that he’ll be put on probation or lose his scholarship or have to pay a fine or have to go to jail or be otherwise fucked over for what was one of several mistakes last night. 

But no, it’s only Joonmyun. His mistake, probably the biggest one honestly. 

He looks the worse for wear for last night, too, smiling tensely as he lifts his plastic bags of soup containers. Still handsome though, still a mistake that Tao wants to repeat. 

“Galbitang,” he says, stepping easily inside. “Soup,” he clarifies a second later. “It will help with your hangovers.”

They eat with plastic spoons, and Tao tries not to think about Joonmyun’s fingers on his jawline, his breath hot and wet against his mouth as he swirls beef around the broth. 

The tension between them _seems_ thick and palpable, but apparently not enough for Jongin to take notice or comment, murmuring darkly about how he’s gonna murder Chanyeol. Please remind him. They have class together tomorrow. He can do it then. 

 

Jongin kicks him out, so they can study, so Tao can Skype his parents, so Joonmyun can go back to his own apartment that he pays real fucking rent for and live his own goddamn life. 

 

It’s Hungry, Hungry Hippos this time, Tao interrupting English reading by the looks of it.

“Updates?” Kris smiles easily as he settles across from him. 

He’s wearing a pink flamingo-stamped polo, and Tao counts the printscreened animals as Kris shuffles the beads on the gameboard. 

“Yes...She—she kissed me.” He pauses. “On the mouth, but she was drunk.”

“That complicates things,” Kris agrees. “That probably counts as a clue, right?”

“Even if she was drunk?”

Kris shrugs. 

And thinking about it—actually thinking about it—makes his head hurt. 

Tao changes the subject to Kris’ volunteer hours at the local kindergarten, the little girl that had made the beaded rainbow bracelet that he’s currently wearing. Then Kris’ own girl troubles. His girl troubles _actually_. Her name is Kyungsoon, and she’s kind of perfect—but he’s taking his own advice, he divulges, talking to her this Friday, establishing what they are. 

“And so can you,” Kris says. His smile is wide and persuasive. 

Tao grumbles about how it isn’t really the same. 

They set up another round. 

“Still sad?” Kris asks after beating him _soundly_. 

Tao doesn’t answer, isn’t even _sure_. He helps Kris clear the table instead of responding. 

They also play Connect 4. Chess. 

Kris tells him as they set up Apples to Apples, are joined by Minseok, Baekhyun that it’s often better just to ask people straight up if you want a straight answer. That’s the secret to any successful relationship. 

 

Tao doesn’t ask straight up, doesn’t seek straight answers. He makes flashcards, reviews his notes, pauses to watch a Full House marathon with Jongin, fills his mind and time with more important worries, duties, thoughts. 

 

 _I’m getting Baja Fresh after English class._ , Joonmyun sends on Tuesday. Perfect punctuation and capitalization as expected. _I think Froyo after. Care to join me?_

Joonmyun swats Tao’s card away with the most charming, sincere, utterly beautiful smile. 

He’s paying, he assures once more, for Tao’s company. 

And though Tao still trembles and aches at the phantom taste of Joonmyun’s mouth, they act as if nothing happened. At Joonmyun’s prompting, Tao talks about his family, his struggles as a college student, how this first year—this first semester—is so different from what he’d come to expect.

“You’re so young,” Joonmyun declares abruptly. “So young,” and his tone turns sugary sweet at the end, like when he’s speaking to Jongin, teasing him as he recounts awkward and embarrassing stories from their youth, his failed attempt to bleach his hair, his failed boy band in school, the time he tried to pierce his own ear with a safety pin and alcohol and had to be taken to the hospital. And he should be reaching up to ruffle Tao’s hair, or pinching his cheek, or smiling at him fondly like he’s the cutest puppy that Joonmyun has ever seen. 

And Tao, he should really stop feeling like this because yes, Joonmyun kissed him—drunkenly and as a mistake he clearly wants to forget—but still doesn’t _want_ him. Still talks to him like he talks to Jongin, like everything between them is completely platonic. And Tao can—or should be able to—take a hint. 

“I’m an adult,” he insists, hating how weak and unsteady the words sound. 

And Joonmyun’s eyebrows pinch in thought. He wrinkles his nose before scooping another spoonful of frozen yogurt into his mouth. “Just barely, though.”

Tao swallows another spoonful, too, to avoid speaking, or protesting or maybe confessing, and the frozen yogurt tastes suddenly sour on his tongue. 

They finish in silence. 

Tao doesn’t invite him back to the dorm room this time, and Joonmyun smiles at him tightly as he leaves him at the front gate.

He passes Kris on the way, but he doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to try to put words to his feelings or make it feel more real. He plops down on his bed instead, screams into the pillowcase that Joonmyun had helped him pick out, pulls away only to frown at his phone, the messages he knows he won’t be receiving, wills away the unnecessary feelings like hurt and betrayal and shame. 

 

He distracts himself with his course work, texts Lu Han to take him up on his Stats study date offers. 

They get coffee, and Lu Han curses under his breath every time their answers don’t match, is equal parts antagonistic and imploring as he struggles—they both struggle to understand. 

 

Tao picks it apart by himself, in increments of pitiful indulgence. 

 

Homecoming, they wear their sweaters—couple sweaters—again, make light conversation as they amble through the various dorm and club tailgate parties. Joonmyun pays in cash for his own, Tao’s, Jongin’s, Taemin’s, Chanyeol’s, Jongdae’s burgers, hotdogs, sodas, water bottles. 

The students burn an effigy of the other team’s mascot amid cheers, boos, jeers. 

They don’t stay around for the Homecoming game, but Tao sees Jackson, his boyfriend, Jinyoung, another boy running quickly across the field, barechested streaks of neon body paint and bobbing curly wigs. 

 

Joonmyun’s roommate is having a birthday party that Saturday, and Joonmyun invites them both at another family dinner that Friday, around a meal plan meal of Pizza Hut personal pizzas, Pepsi fountain drinks. Jongdae, his roommate, had asked him to invite as many people as he knew, so yes, strangers and family members alike were both welcome. Jongdae is just really interested in finding his prince(ss) charming. 

A present isn’t necessary, Joonmyun insists, but Tao still goes to Target on his own. He gets him a birthday card with puppies on it, a leather notebook, a gift bag, frowns at the price on the cash register. He pays the last 3 dollars in coins. 

Jongin and Chanyeol and Tao are fashionably late. 

It’s mostly other Education majors,Tao finds, their roommates, significant others, friends, relatives in Jongin’s case, tag-a-longs in Tao’s and Chanyeol’s. 

Joonmyun’s apartment is small, neat, and Tao feels oddly out of sorts, drums his fingers against the his thighs before heading into the kitchen. 

Alcohol, he knows, will help. 

Tao reaches for one of the bottles on the counter, and Joonmyun’s roommate—Jongdae—tuts. Tao startles, jerks back, and he hums now, tilting his head back to drag his gaze over Tao’s body, slow and appraising. Approving, Tao thinks, too, lingering on Tao’s throat, chest, arms, legs. 

His eyelashes fan heavily, and his lips curl at the corners, teasing, pretty, like he knows or is interested in knowing. It’s entirely unsettling, and Tao shifts, imagines this is what a pinned butterfly feels. He drags his fingers over the rivets in his jeans, shoves his hands in his pockets. His gift bag knocks against his thigh. Jongdae’s eyes drop there then sweep up once more, slow, slow, dark, dark, dark. 

“How old are you?” Jongdae’s tone is sugary sweet. He leans back, and the assorted bottles of alcohol behind him—beer, vodka, soju, tequila, soco—clink with his movement. The frilly pink hat on his head—Birthday Girl—knocks against the shelves behind him. “Old enough to drink?” A thoughtful pause, thoughtful hum. “Old enough to be my present?”

“Hey, hey,” Joonmyun cuts in. “He’s my freshman, back off.” 

Jongdae throws his head back and cackles. Joonmyun laughs, too. The sound low enough to skitter through Tao’s body. 

Tense, Tao simply watches the exchange, shivers when Joonmyun’s arm wraps around his waist, fingers tiptoeing absently over the sliver of bare flesh on his hip. His palm is warm, makes goosebumps bloom on his skin. 

“Corrupting the youth, Joonmyunnie hyung?” Tao chokes out a protest—Jongdae, he’s only a year older than him, Joonmyun only two— and Jongdae’s smile widens, teeth gleaming. “Didn’t know you liked them this young?” he continues, languid, but biting. “Fresh meat, just how I like them.”

Joonmyun’s hand tightens. Tao’s skin dimples beneath his fingertips. 

“I’m the birthday boy,” he reminds them, motioning to the hat on his head. 

“Happy birthday,” Tao tries, and Jongdae’s smile softens, entire demeanor softens, too. He tips forward to accept Tao’s gift, relinqueshes the alcohol with an exaggerated bow, another lingering, unnerving drag of his dark eyes down Tao’s body, a soft murmur about how Tao really would have been a good present. 

And it does make it better, the alcohol. The warm tingle of it through his veins, the weight of Joonmyun’s eyes on him, the brush of his skin on his, the thrum of music through his bones. 

They dance together again. Joonmyun wraps his arms around Tao’s waist, sways just slightly out rhythm, but he’s got a smile in his eyes, a laugh on his lips, and Joonmyun’s USB strobelight paints his face in dreamy flashes of pale blue, pink, purple. 

And it’s perfect—he’s perfect. 

His eyes are extra bright, his cheeks, flushed, lips swollen, and oh, he can get even more disconcertingly handsome. Oh, he can make it _impossible_ not to want him. 

And this is what it’s like to be utterly floored with desire, to feel ike he’s drowning or melting or burning, like everything else just fades away as Joonmyun’s nose skims his throat, Joonmyun’s hips bump against his. 

Chanyeol says he’ll walk Jongin home, Tao, too, but Tao is too warm, too bright on the sparkle of Joonmyun’s smile and touch and presence to leave. 

This is another mistake, Tao already knows, but he is helplessly drawn, drawn, drawn. 

And as Jongdae retires dramatically to his room, musing loudly about how he lacks a prince _or_ princess on this birthday, it’s on Tao and Joonmyun to clean. 

Tao helps Joonmyun clear away the Solo cups, empty halfdrunk cans of beer into the sink, separate recycling from regular trash. 

Joonmyun peers up at him as Tao drops another 10 gallon kitchen back on the floor. He—his _eyes_ —pin Tao to the counter. A jolt of desire races up his spine, tingles at the tips of his fingers

And oh, he’s really too goddamn gorgeous. It makes Tao’s blood feel thick with want. 

He tilts his head down, drawn, drawn, drawn, and fuck, they’re so goddamn close. 

“Are you drunk enough?” he asks. 

Joonmyun nods slowly, brings his hand up to cradle Tao’s face. Tao trembles into the touch, exhaling shakily as Joonmyun coaxes him dizzying closer closer closer, lower, lower, lower. Tao’s body sags in perilous invitiation, and the buttons on his back pockets clink audibly against the granite counter behind him as Joonmyun’s mouth presses against his.

His mouth tastes like liquor again, and his hands squeeze around Tao’s waist, and Tao could get used to it, could become addicted to this.

Parting his lips, sighing into his mouth, Joonmyun pins him with his body, pushing forwad, hips flush with his as he kisses him hard and deep and devestatingly thorough. 

“Bedroom,” he says against the seam of his mouth, and Tao’s entire body shivers with a helpless tremor at even just the thought of how much hotter Joonmyun’s kisses will taste, how much hotter his touches will be once they’re all alone. But the kisses slow down once they stumble inside, sluggish, dizzyingly tender, languid, languid, languid as Joonmyun dozes. Every time, Tao makes to pull away, Joonmyun rouses enough to kiss him again, tender and soft and disarmingly perfect. And Tao falls asleep with his arm around Joonmyun’s waist, his lips against his. 

Wakes up that way, too. 

But it’s still not something they talk about. 

In the bathroom, Joonmyun blinks up at him sleepy and fond as Tao smears toothpaste on his finger, scrubs it through his teeth. Winching softly, he pinches off his contact lenses, gropes for his glasses, then brushes his teeth too hard, gets toothpaste around his own mouth, rinses, reaches out to cup the side of Tao's face, too fond and too soft and too _something_ , but there aren't any words. 

 

Joonmyun drives him back to the dorms, McDonald’s Deluxe breakfasts in tow, and he doesn’t once call him kid, doesn’t baby him, doesn’t put more awful, awful distance between them. 

It’s a step forward, Tao thinks. Progress, progress, progress. 

Tacit and maybe hidden, but still there, there, there. 

They eat together, Joonmyun and Tao squeezed on his bed, Jongin across from them. 

It’s Sunday, and Jongin kicks him out at noon, insisting that he needs to study, Tao does, too, and Joonmyun has his own life and his own apartment and his own friends. 

It’s better for all parties when Joonmyun stays in his space. 

 

Yixing, a Philosophy major in their wing, gets a care package from his parents, and he’s dubbed the snack fairy as he dispenses ramen, Toaster Strudel, Poptarts, popcorn, cheeseballs around the floor. 

Stressed, Tao eats his chicken ramen raw, in fistfuls between furious notes, periodic slams of his head against the desk. 

But at least he’s studying. At least he got all the questions right on his problem set. At least his Humanities professor smiled and nodded along to a point he made during class. 

At least. At least. At least. 

At least his brain is too full of other, imporatnt, life-altering things to mull over stupid, half-formed feelings and stupid, half-formed relationships. 

 

It’s 2 AM, and he’s at the computer lab for printing, in his sweats. 

Word isn’t working on the computer, won’t open his essay, try as he might. He's ctrl alt dlted three times, restarted twice, cursed at least half a dozen times. Mandarin and English and the Korean that Jongin had taught him last week. 

He thunks his head against the computer desk twice before asking for help. 

Hakyeon, the RA on call, smiles comfortingly at him, and Tao makes room for him as he types commands on the keyboard. It takes them another 3 minutes, but they get it working. 

 

That next morning, an awful, awful Monday, Tao takes his essay to the free writing lab on campus, and the pretty English major with butterfly clips in her short, red hair is gentle—as gentle as she can manage—as she underlines his paper in red. 

Tao retreats to the computer lab again, prints much more successfully. It’s Jinki this time, smiling at him placidly in greeting. 

Tao, thankfully, has other worries to occupy his time.

 

Tao studies more, more, more, sleeps less, less, less, eats, decompresses, calls home whenever he can, tries, tries, tries his best. 

 

After finishing his reading, he wanders into the lobby for their arts and crafts fair. It’s open to _all_ students, an equal opportunity stress reliever, the doors near the lobby propped open. And they’re playing classical music—an attempt at ambient calm through the maelstrom of midterms. 

Tao spots Lu Han, settles besides him, immediately gets to work separating colored beads and thread for himself. 

Lu Han threads red, yellow, red. His favorite soccer team, he supplies, as he separates more beads for himself. Red, yellow, red, yellow. 

Tao reaches for green, blue, purple, steals a yellow and red from Lu Han’s pile, too. 

Lu Han is watching him curiously. Tao threads red, orange, yellow, green, blue. A rainbow.

“I’m just making mine gay.”

“Oh.” A pause. Thread, thread, thread. “I’m trying to start an intermural soccer team,” Lu Han continues. “I’m asking around to see if anyone is interested. 

Tao isn’t, and he says as much. Lu Han narrows his eyes, swipes a red bead from between Tao’s fingers. 

“Tell me if you know anyone that is,” he says. 

They finish their bracelets in silence—relative silence—until the RA on duty, Minseok asks about Lu Han's bracelet, and Tao loses Lu Han to an impassioned conversation about their fave team players and that play last night, holy _shit_ , the fucking _legs_ on him. 

Bracelet rattling on his wrist, he plops back on his desk, studies, studies, studies, until his fingertips feel raw from brushing against the edge of his flashcards. 

 

Running on pure Starbucks espresso, force of will, he completes his Chinese Humanities midterm. 

Tao is jittery still from caffeine when he plops down on the one of the benches outside the bookstore, but the sun is shinng. And his midterm is over. 

Jackson emerges 15 minutes later from his own Midtern—Asian Philosophy, hollow-eyed and slow-moving. He groans audibly as he collapses beside him on the painted wood. His head is heavy, sigh heavier on Tao’s shoulder. 

“Never again,” he says though it's one of several they need to compete this week, one of several they'll need to complete this semester and for their degrees, too.

It’s better, in the moment, to pretend this was not a battle, but a war. 

The adrenaline fades, and he deflates with exhaustion, in that hazy place between wakefulness and slumber as he bounds back to campus coffee shop, spoils himself with a sugary, whipped cream smothered coffee, oversized, sugar-glased donut, watches Jackson do the same. 

“Never again,” Jackson repeats, raising his plastic cup. “Never, ever, ever again.” 

 

Joonmyun texts him in celebration at the end of the week, asks him out to dinner, and Tao immediately agrees. 

They get wings. Tao’s heart lurches when Joonmyun reaches forward to wipe absently at the buffalo sauce on Tao’s cheek. He does the same for Jongin, too, chides in exactly the same way. 

And Tao remembers himself. 

It hadn’t counted. Or at least hadn’t counted for Joonmyun. 

 

Tao still doesn’t have a straight answer, hasn’t bothered to ask a straight question. 

 

Halloween is coming up, and the RAs in his Hall have set up the giant screen TV in the lobby to constantly be tuned onto a 31 Days of Halloween. Have also decorated the halls with giant spiderwebs and plastic spiders, skeletons, pumpkins. 

Jongin and Tao buy silver spraypaint, acrylics in red, slate, black, paintbrushes, steal refrigerator boxes near the recycling center by campus. 

Jongin sets down newspaper in the quad by their dorm building, and they get to work making their Gameboy costumes, freehanding the words, buttons, and giggling at their progress. 

“It’s a couple costume,” Tao says when Chanyeol bounds over to inspect their work. He notes the way that Chanyeol’s smile drops at the comment, and he shoots Jongin a secretive smile. 

Jongin flushes as he reaches for his paintbrush, says they have to hurry before the sun goes down. 

 

They wear the costumes at the Halloween party Chanyeol invites them to. 

And drinking, flirting, dancing is nice—nice without a Joonmyun hyung to remind him of his feelings. 

 

But Joonmyun, messaging him the next morning and asking if he wants to meet up for tacos, he’s good at monopolizing Tao’s time, his energy, his feelings. 

“Green sauce is the hottest,” he advises, grin widening when Tao only adds more. 

Joonmyun watches him over the top of his burrito, and Tao feels restless with the desire to say something but he sips his drink instead.

“Are you going to the stoplight party?” he asks, casual and conversational as he shovels Mexican carnitas, diced tomatoes, onions around his plate. 

Tao remembers their last one. Remembers the warmth of his mouth, the tenderness of his fingers around Tao’s jaw, the aching solidity of his body. He swallows, taps his own plastic fork against the styrofoam plate. “Yeah, Jongin and I again. I don’t have a boyfriend, so—”

“Right.” When Tao looks up, Joonmyun is looking down at his fork, eyebrows pinched, lips pursed. Discomfort. But he smiles, suddenly, extra brightly. “What’s your type?”

 _You_. 

“I haven’t really decided yet,” he says instead. 

“That’s good. I mean, you’re still young. And it’s best not to be tied down your first year, right?”

Tao blinks. “It isn’t being tied down if it’s the right person,” he says softly, and Joonmyun stares at him for two, three beats. 

“Right.” 

Their meal is once more finished in silence, but it’s less awkward this time. 

And oh, Tao realizes it can be even less kind, even more cruel, acutely patronizing, fraternal and fond, but too, too polite. It can make him feel small in worst way, Ugly and pathetic and helpless, a thing to pity, a thing unable to make it on his own. 

He likes being needed, Tao thinks. 

He doesn’t want me how I want him, but Tao still invites him back this time. They watch Netflix on Tao’s laptop. 

A dongsaeng, Jongin had called it. This is strictly hyung-dongsaeng. 

But Joonmyun’s hand feels too perfectly warm on the small of Tao’s back, his breath so sweet and perfect near Tao’s shoulder, and he wants all the same. Wants wants wants more, more, more. 

 

He screams into his pillow again when Joonmyun leaves, stomps towards the front lobby only to see that Kris isn’t there. 

He checks out a 300 piece puzzle of a meadow during fall, wills, wills, wills himself better. 

 

The night of the party, Tao tugs on his tightest pants, shirt, leans heavily over their tiny, tiny mirror as he smears the thinnest line of eyeliner on his lashline. 

And even though he doesn’t have a boyfriend, even though it hadn’t _meant_ anything for Joonmyun, Tao still tugs a red woven bracelet onto his wrist. Jongin, Chanyeol wear green, don’t comment on the fact that Tao isn’t, raise their tiny shot glasses and compliment him for his ability to drink so _well_ instead. 

It’s the same club, the same reckless haze of alcohol, the same filthy music spilling from the speakers. 

Joonmyun is there, too, and jealousy and ugly, misplaced possessiveness lances through Tao. Tao doesn’t allow himself to look at his wrist. He closes it tight in his hand instead, drags him away, and when Joonmyun is pressed up against the bathroom wall, moaning his name as he threads his fingers through Tao’s hair, Tao is too concerned with the weight of Joonmyun’s cock on his tongue, the weight of his eyes on Tao’s face, the leaden, leaden weight of dread and vibrating _need_ in his heart, to care. 

Joonmyun gets him off, too, biting hard along the contours of Tao’s exposed sternum, whispering his name in something like drunken, possessive reverence as he strokes him to completion. 

Tao chants Joonmyun’s name into the crown of his head as he comes, loud and gasping and violent and helpless and stupid stupid stupid. 

And in the aftermath, through the comedown, the realization, Tao’s heart hurts so much that he feels like crying, but he doesn’t. He’s stronger and better and less fucking stupid. 

Instead, he trembles into the kiss that Joonmyun gives him, winds his arms around his waist and lets himself want and have if only for just this moment. Since they don’t ever fucking _talk_ about this, about them, about _anything_. And Tao can already feel it slipping through his fingers even as he holds it. 

It takes everything he has to pull away, stumble back towards the stifling, liberating heat of other bodies, voices, smells, _beings_ that aren't Joonmyun or the dismaying desperation in Tao’s heart . 

 

He knows how it must look, Tao disheveled and flushed and swollen-lipped and breathless and trembling, knows it must look like exactly what it is, but Jongin doesn’t comment when Tao trembles through the request to go home early, right now, doesn’t question why they aren’t waiting for Joonmyun this time. 

Jongin sends Chanyeol a message telling him he’s leaving early, something’s come up, and together they walk. 

Silent, pensive, drunk, tense, tense, tense. And Jongin, thankfully, doesn’t speak. 

They stop at Jack in the Box along the way. 

They order 5 sets of tacos a piece, eat them there in the parking lot, asses planted on the car dividers, gazes trained on the asphalt, chewing in silence. 

Jongin’s foot taps against his, and his hand briefly connects with the frayed red threads on Tao’s wrist. An outwardly casual, absent touch, maybe even an honestly casual and absent touch, but Tao feels like crying again, nonetheless. 

He takes another bite of his taco, swallows it down heavy and slow, breathes consciously through the desire to break down. 

“Is it...did Joonmyun hyung…?” he asks—finally—as they take off their shoes at the door. The room spins, and Tao has to steady himself against their fridge

“Yes,” Tao confirms. But he doesn't clarify further. Doesn’t want to.

And Jongin doesn’t press it. 

And Tao doesn’t throw up this time, just crawls beneath his covers with all of his clothes on, holds as still as he possibly can to keep from shattering into a mess of pity and anger and hurt and confusion and want and helpless, helpless tears. 

 

Joonmyun is back the next morning with hangover soup again, lingers in spite of Jongin’s pointed, distrustful glances, stays even after Jongin leaves to meet up with Taemin. 

They watch Shawshank Redemption together. 

At one point, Joonmyun’s hand brushes his back, and Tao flinches away. 

Joonmyun leaves not long after. 

 

But it’s a Monday, and Joonmyun is back. Texting him about meeting up. No, not for dinner. He wants to talk to him. 

Tao’s heart drops to his feet or soars or tries valiantly to pound out of his chest. 

He agonizes over his clothing, paces to the lobby, and back, comes back in time just to let Joonmyun into his room. 

He sits on his bed. 

Joonmyun is watching his mouth again, swallowing heavily again. Tao doesn’t feel flush and reckless with alcohol, but stilll still still with want. Tao isn’t drunk enough to blame it for this bad decision, isn’t drunk at all. 

And Joonmyun isn’t drunk enough either, isn’t drunk at all. 

But Joonmyun is still moving closer, dizzyingly slow slow slow. The anticipation swells, tingles through his fingertips as Joonmyun’s nose grazes his, breath ghosts along Tao’s parted lips. 

This kiss, it’s whisper-soft, a barely barely barely there brush of skin and skin, the briefest, softest press, but Tao shudders into it, nonetheless. And Joonmyun laughs breathlessly, maybe disbelievingly, cradles his face before nuzzling forward to do it again. 

It’s even softer, even more breathtakingly tender. It lasts longer, long enough for Joonmyun’s lips to part, for Tao’s breath to tremble, for Joonmyun to laugh again before whispering his name. 

It’s the slowest, most tender exploration, and Tao moans helplessly even at the soft, slow way that Joonmyun’s lips drag over his own, the careful, hesitant way his tongue brushes along Tao’s quivering lips.

“I wanted to do that yesterday,” he whispers. His lips are still so achingly close that Tao can taste every word. 

“So do it again.” 

And Joonmyun murmurs in agreement, closing the distance between them agains with another kiss, just as soft and sweet and slow and tender and lingering. 

“Again,” Tao breathes, and Joonmyun snorts out a laugh, but he keeps, keeps, keeps kissing him anyway. “My legs are shaking,” he confesses into his mouth, and Joonmyun groans. He kisses his nose, his cheek, his eyebrow before coming back to his mouth. 

Pleasure tingles up his spine, and his arms wind tight—possessive and insistent and needy, needy, needy, too—as Joonmyun’s tongue teases along the back of his teeth. 

“We should...” Joonmyun whispers into the corner of Tao’s mouth. “Should...”

“Not stop,” Tao finishes, squeezing him even closer, loving the way Joonmyun’s small, tight, tight body shudders in agreement. 

Tao also loves his flushed his cheeks are, how soft his skin feels, how plush his lips are, how warm and soft his mouth tastes, loves it all and never ever ever wants to stop. 

Joonmyun pulls him back onto his bed, sinks into the sheets, kisses him deep and wet and thorough until Tao’s jaw aches and his limbs feel like jello, until Joonmyun’s phone is going off—a reminder to get across campus for his tutoring session. 

And finally, Tao thinks, finally this is finally _something_ as Joonmyun kisses him just once more, a soft, lingering, toe-curlingly perfect thing before falling into his shoes and leaving. 

 

 _That was nice_ , he sends. 

His stomach in knots, Tao props his head on his hand, watches his phone. 

Watches, watches, watches until the screen goes black.

Fruitless, stupid, pathetic, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

 

“Joonmyun stopped by earlier,” Tao says, and Jongin wrinkles his nose as he upends the contents of his bookbag on his bed. His highlighter rolls behind Tao’s nightstand, and Tao tosses it back, motions to the cookies on their mini fridge. “He dropped some Snickerdoodles off. I already had one.”

“He’s smothering you, too, now,” Jongin decides, waving his highlighter menacingly. “I told you he would try to steal you. It’s annoying.” But he pads barefoot to their mini fridge instead, grabs three cookies.

Thanks hyung, Jongin sends and then grimaces a second later at Joonmyun’s response. Tao’s phone is still dark. His message read, but not acknowledged. He allows himself to feel stupidly hurt before munching menacingly on another cookie, pulling out his notebooks to study. 

 

It progresses to something indefinite and confusing and private and hot and awful and perfect and close enough to what he craves. Joonmyun with his tongue in Tao’s mouth, his tight, tight body straddling his, hands tangled in his hair. And Taos is fast becoming addicted to the heat, the taste, the sound, the heady perfection of it, likes seeing Joonmyun all breathless and flushed and disheveled, likes being the cause, wants wants wants more, though. 

Tao wants to enjoy this what it is, wants to keep the desperation and need and helpless desire from spilling out of his mouth and into his fingertips and through his clumsy, arousal-heavy, possessive touches. 

He’s not entirely sure if he succeeds, but Joonmyun thankfully doesn’t stop, indulges this secret, awful thing between them frequently, thoroughly, leaves Tao all breathless and kiss-drunk and aching for more whenever he extricates himself from between Tao’s arms. 

They still aren’t talking about it, about them. Not really. But maybe actions speak louder than words 

And it becomes part of Tao’s routine, too. Study, class, shower, decompress, eat, touch and kiss Joonmyun and hope it means something, visit Kris to make sense of it, hang out with Jackson, study, class, shower, decompress, eat, touch and kiss Joonmyun and hope it means something, visit Kris to make sense of it, hang out with Jackson. Lather, rinse, repeat. 

 

And Tao still remembers the weight of Joonmyun’s cock on his tongue, the perfect, perfect curl of his fingers around Tao’s erection, still remembers the overwhelming sweet, sweet ruin of Joonmyun’s orgasm, his own, but when Tao drags his hands down Joonmyun’s waist, Joonmyun stops it, kisses him until he feels like he’s dying. 

He isn’t entirely sure if it’s progress or a step back

He decides not to tell Kris. 

He doesn’t want to know. 

It’s a mistake he’s too terrified to repeat, too terrified to swear off out right. 

He’s got this under control. 

 

“Do you have a home to go to for Thanksgiving?” Joonmyun asks as he sits cross legged on Jongin’s bed. His hair is wild from the insistent tugs of Taos’ fingers, his cheeks flushed from arousal, lips distressingly kiss-swollen

He has to repeat the question. And Tao stops thinking about how it always feels like a crime to stop kissing Joonmyun, about how he needs to gorge himself while he’s allowed. 

Tao thinks about all the savings it took to come here, about his parents’ tight, tight budget, about how even with his completely frugal lifestyle, even with the little indulges that Joonmyun doesn’t have to give him, how it’s still not enough. Swallowing a sigh, he shakes his head. 

“Jongdae and I are gonna adopt all the Thanksgiving homeless this year,” he continues. “Gonna give people somewhere safe and warm to be thankful. You should come.”

Tao agrees readily, yanks Joonmyun’s mouth towards his own once more.

 

After his last lecture on Wednesday, Tao heads to the grocery store for pumpkin pie—a necessary contribution—and squeezes it into their tiny, tiny fridge. He has to move Jongin’s energy drinks out to make room.

 

It’s a grocery store turkey, macaroni cheese, stuffing mix, box wine, sparkling cider, cheap champagne, but homemade mashed potatoes, pecan pie.

Jongdae—also holidayhomeless—is there, and he flirts broadly and boldly, flirts with him, too, though. He isn’t afraid to do it aloud either, isn’t ashamed of how he feels or what he wants. Lifting his flute of sparkling cider, fanning his eyelashes again pretty and sweet, lips curled in that unnerving smile, he says he’s most thankful for Tao’s thighs in those pants, for found freshman Sehun’s ass, too, though. 

Joonmyun is thankful for the friends he’s made. Tao, of course, among them. For financial security. For successful student teaching applications. 

 

Tao is dizzy on wine, everything warm and hazy around the edges as he lounges on Joonmyun’s couch, and Joonmyun holds his hand in his, smile bright though wobbly around the corners, eyes warm though hazed over. Discreet and soft and warm and perfect, Joonmyun tries to kiss him, and it’s awful how Tao kisses back, clumsy and automatic before remembering himself and pulling back. 

He blames it on the wine, the gluttony of his last meal as he excuses himself to the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face, asks himself what he's even _doing_ here.

 

Jongin and Tao and Chanyeol walk back together, Tao trying to hide the tremble in his hands, then trying to blame it on the cold, shoving his hands in his _couple sweater_ and wondering what this means and wondering when he’ll be brave enough to ask. 

 

That Friday, Joonmyun visists—under the pretense of delivering some leftovers, waits until Jongin leaves, kisses Tao breathless and trembling and overwhelmed. 

Tao is a puddle of soft, needy moans, pliant, tingling limbs at the wet push and retreat of Joomyun’s tongue in his mouth, the fluttering tease of it along his neck. He wants to stay like this forever, memorizing the taste of the line of his jaw, the curve of his Adam's Apple, the crook of his throat. 

But he can’t, isn’t allowed, probably. Doesn’t want to ask, definitely. 

 

That Saturday, he comes bearing more food. Ethiopian takeout, a 2 liter of orange soda. They watch a Will and Grace marathon on TV while they eat. 

Afterwards, Joonmyun hums as he pads out into the kitchen with their take out containers, is humming still when he returns with them rinsed, setting them it in their recycling bin. And Tao’s heart, enamored and weak with wanting as it is, fucking _aches_

He thinks—deliriously—that maybe he has to be the one to ask first, but he’s scared.

If he wants straight answers, he has to ask straight up. He has to let Joonmyun know that he wants, wants—

Jongin’s sharp, deprecatingly laugh has Tao jerking, focusing instead on the large wet spot on Joonmyun’s stomach from his careless dishwashing. 

 

Joonmyun hugs them both goodbye, kisses their cheeks, too, laughs when Jongin screams in protest. No one notices how heavily Tao is shaking. 

 

And fuck, he needs to—fuck, he just needs to—

He’s shaking as he lifts his laundry basket onto the table, breathes consciously through the dread thrumming in his veins. Resting his head against the wall, he lets the electric thrum of running washers and dryers lull him into a calm(er) stupor. 

He really, really, really, really doesn't know how to even begin to—

But it’s okay. 

It’s okay. 

College is for mistakes. 

It’s okay. 

He doesn’t check his phone, leaves his clothes to wrinkle in the basket afterwards. 

He’s fine. 

He’ll be fine. 

 

Jongin asks him to get pizza with him, and Tao has nearly forgotten, found more distractions, filled the silence with the flurry of activity. Finals now, even more serious, more pressing. 

 

There is an ultimate frisbee tournament in the quad next to their residence hall that Saturday, and with his Medical Terminology book open, but unread on his lap, Tao watches the college boys—Chanyeol included—bound around the grass, stumbling over themselves as they chase after the frisbee. At his side, Jongin watches, too, tapping his closed highlighter periodically against the glossy page of his History book. 

The tournament only last half an hour, and Chanyeol, his friends Jooheon, Jihoon emerge the victors. 

Chanyeol comes back wild-haired and wild-eyed, a champion he declares, in need of a damsel, no a lady-in-waiting to congratulate him for his great deeds. 

He gets Jongin and Tao instead, the latter not at all interested, the former offering him a thumbs up and a congratulatory Jamba Juice. Chanyeol insists on a tight, tight hug, too. 

 

And whatever is going on between them, it’s painfully awkward and unnamed and confusing, too, by the looks of it. But nice. Nicer at least than what Tao and Joonmyun have, or maybe have. 

He still isn’t quite sure. 

 

That Wednesday, on a _sibling_ date in the mess hall, Chanyeol joins them. He’s trying to steal grilled cheese sandwiches this time, wrapping them in cheap, square napkins. The grease will no doubt bleed onto his notebooks, but Tao doesn’t care enough—about him, his notebooks, his papers—to stop him. 

And Tao doubts it—briefly—as Chanyeol talks about how hot the girls on Tinder are, has Tao checked them out, wait Tao is gay, right. The boys are hot, too. Everyone is hot. But yes, the girls. Jongin, the fucking girls. 

And Chanyeol still places his hand on Jongin’s arm as he talks, looks at him with too much warmth in his eyes, his palm rubbing up and down Jongin’s arms as he underscores just _how_ hot, assures that Jongin is definitely hot enough to get all of them if he wants. 

Jongin promises to download the app, tell him if he finds anyone. 

 

He does, just days, has to borrow an iron, run back to borrow an ironing board, too, his leg jittering nervously as he works on making smoothing the creases in his jeans. 

This girl, she’s really—oh man—she’s just—

He motions, to underscore his point, drops the iron, curses, bends to pick it up, and accidentally collapses the entire thing, and Tao rises to help him. 

He catches only the briefest glance at her before Jongin closes the door behind him. 

She has long, long black hair and offers him a small smile before she’s being ushered away. 

 

Tao revises his earlier assessment of Jongin and Chanyeol’s relationship as he texts Jongin a thumbs up, returns the iron and ironing board for him, completes a puzzle by himself in the lobby while Minseok reads for his Biology class. 

 

Chanyeol congratulates him when he returns, and it seems sincere, his hand on Jongin’s shoulder too, too long. 

It still makes more sense, has more delineated boundaries than what Tao and Joonmyun have. 

 

It’s a Wednesday, and Tao has his hands in Joonmyun’s soft, perfect hair, his knee between Joonmyun’s soft, perfect thighs, his tongue in Joonmyun’s soft, perfect mouth, soft and perfect and hot and awful and everything he wants. 

Until Joonmyun’s phone rings, and he pulls away with a soft, distracted, awful, awful curse. 

“Jongin," Joonmyun breathes, and guilt flares through Tao’s body. And then shame. And then hurt. And then anger. And then dismay. 

He sits up abruptly, tugs his clothing quickly into place. Joonmyun does the same. 

His sweater is rumpled, glasses askew, hair tousled, pants wrinkled, lips bruised, breathing ragged, and fuck, Tao wants to again and again. But he doesn’t allow himself to ask. 

They’re decent by the time that Jongin slips the key into the lock, slips his shoes off in the entry way. 

Joonmyun stays for dinner. They go to the campus burrito place. Tao and Joonmyun get beef; Jongin gets chicken. 

 

And fuck, why is he _doing_ this? 

 

Kris is eating Skittles, sets the bag down with an audible clink when he spots Tao. His smile is wide, genuine. 

He grabs Uno this time. 

“Girl troubles?” he asks as he opens the box. “Girl updates? Did you finally talk to her?”

“Boy troubles,” Tao corrects, looking down at his hands. “Boy updates.” And Tao doesn’t want to apologize for it, doesn’t even think it’s something to apologize for it—not anymore, but he still wants Kris to understand it, would like him to accept it, too. And his chest feels tight with the potential rejection. 

Kris doesn’t say anything for a while, but he slides the board across the table. Tao draws a card, sets it down, lifts the tiles one by one. Kris does the same. 

It’s harder, second by second to breathe. 

“The jie that we’ve been talking about,” he says, finally, “it’s a ge?”

Tao nods furiously, still not looking up. His fingers tremble around his card.

“That’s okay.” A pause. “No,” he sighs. No it isn’t right. It’s not okay that you’re still having trouble, but it’s okay that it’s a boy.”

“Okay,” Tao parrots. 

When he glances up, Kris’ smile is soft, pitying. He hates how comforting it is. 

“I thought he wasn’t gay,” Tao breathes in a rush. “He isn’t. He likes both, but it was easier to think that I was just wasting my time. When I thought that maybe he couldn't ’t—”

“He kissed you.”

_He jerked me off, too. He let me blow him, too._

“Yes and then pretended that it didn’t happen. Then we went out for lunch, and he called me young. Said I probably didn’t know what I want.” He swallows thickly, wills the emotion out of his voice. “Got possessive when someone else wanted me and just held on until that person had left. Kisses me but only when no one else is around. Still makes it seem like this isn't real.”

“That—” A pause. “I mean, that’s a really shitty thing to do.”

“Stringing fresh meat along and then using their age as an excuse to not take their feelings seriously.”

“Yeah.” Kris manages to inject a lot of feeling in that single syllable, and it makes Tao’s heart turn over painfully in his chest. 

“But he’s your friend? I mean, he takes you out to lunch, and he likes helping with your problems? And you said, you like spending time together.”

“Yes.”

Kris furrow his eyebrows, as if weighing his words very carefully. 

“Maybe...maybe he likes you, too. Maybe he’s working out being attracted to you, as shitty as he’s being about it.”

Tao bites his lower lip, digests the words. 

“But, you know, even if—wanting to kiss me isn’t the same as liking me, isn’t the same as wanting to date me, isn’t the same as feeling the way that I feel...about him.”

Kris’ nod is sagely. 

“Yeah, it isn’t.”

“Kissing me afterwards, that isn’t the same either, “ Tao continues in a rush, speaking fast to keep the quaver out of his voice, hating himself for it. “Treating me like a kid, that’s—making sure I know just why he doesn't think I’m..I know some people would like that, but that isn’t how I want things to be.”

“I think,” he advises, tapping the Uno cards into a straight pile. “I think you really need to talk to him. About your feelings. About what you want from this. Really. That's the best way to fix this.” 

 

He isn’t ready, though. 

 

Tao buries his face in his pillow, screams his frustration and hurt and anger and confusion and want into it. 

It isn’t fair, isn’t fair, isn’t fair, hyung, gege, Joonmyun, please, this isn’t _fair_. 

“Tao,” Jongin says, and Tao is mortified, but turns, blinks up at him. 

Jongin pauses, grimaces. “Are you—is is because of hyung…?” He wrinkles his nose in poorly concealed distaste. _You can’t like him more than me,_ Tao remembers. And _You can honestly do so much better_. “I mean, that’s kinda...weird, but it’s okay,” he decides after a beat, and his face twists with vague concern—belated but sincere. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he says quietly. 

And he can feel Jongin’s eyes on him, then his arms, then his breath at Tao’s temple, and Tao can’t hold it in any longer and bursts into tears. 

 

Jongin tells Joonmyun that Tao isn't feeling well, so can they just cancel dinner tomorrow, Sunday, too. No, it’s not serious enough to send soup or saltine crackers. Yes, he’ll drag him to the Campus Clinic if it gets worse. 

 

“You deserve,” Jongin pauses, swallows, rolls his shoulders, wrings his hands, bites his lip. It must be hard, Tao muses ruefully, being caught between loyalties like this. “You—I think you deserve my hyung when he’s not being dumb about his feelings.”

“I don’t think he has them for me. I don't think, not the way I have them for him."

Jongin wrinkles his nose, hums noncommittally. And God, his eyes are so _soft_ , soft and sympathetic, and God, it makes Tao’s skin feel raw. 

“Let's go get Panda Express. My treat.”

And Jongin means well, but his eyes are too soft, his words too measured, handling Tao too careful, too gentle, too worried, too pitying. 

It unsettles Tao, crawls uncomfortably beneath his skin, reminds him—acutely—of how things are and how they aren’t changing. 

“Just promise you’re not going for him just because he's nice,” Jongin says as they settle in their booth, abrupt and fierce. “Because he isn’t always nice, you know. And you can do so much better than nice, Tao.”

Tao nods, and Jongin smiles, soft and sweet and so unnervingly kind. 

 

He clears off his desk, completes three citations on his research paper, decides to do laundry. Perching on a rickety picnic table, he waits out the load, passing the time with 2048, then Weibo trending topics on his phone. 

Kris plops besides him on the table. Tao has to scoot to make room for him. His foot bumps against Tao’s. 

“Good evening,” he says. “Did you talk to your boy?”

“No.”

Kris hums thoughtfully and jumps up, dumps his clothing—darks—into the nearest washing machine. 

“You should,” he advises, after scanning his card for payment. He leaves Tao alone with his thoughts, with _shoulds_ and _shouldn’ts_ and feelings and doubts and worries and insecurities and a general, dreaded sense of vague, stupid hope, vague, stupid purpose. 

But Tao continues to play games on his phone instead, read inane celebrity gossip, pass the time with things that don’t make his heart stutter to a stop in his chest. 

 

He lays his phone on his laundry afterwards, psyching himself in and out of texting. 

He doesn’t. 

Kris would be disappointed, probably. Tao already is. 

It’s fine. 

He’s fine. 

 

They’re alone again. As expected and by design. 

And Joonmyun, he’s blinking up at him through his heavy eyelashes, moving dizzyingly, intentionally closer, closer, closer. And this is how it’s supposed to go, this is how it's been going, but it isn’t fair. It isn’t ok.

He can feel the kiss of Joonmyun’s exhalations against his mouth, the excruciatingly perfect graze of his soft, soft lips against his. 

And it isn’t fair. And it isn’t ok. 

And Tao doesn’t know if he’ll ever know. 

“Aren’t you gonna wait until you’re drunk again?” Joonmyun stiffens. “Or until you’re sure that Jongin is gone for the day?” Tao continues in a reckless, too-quavery, too- _vulnerable_ rush. “Isn’t that—isn’t that the only time you want me?”

Joonmyun blinks, jerks back, and Tao stares at his hands, drops onto his bed.

“Tao,” he says, but that’s it. 

Because he really—he knows he has no excuse

The bed dips as he sits next to him. His thigh is close enough for Tao to feel the heat, the tension, but not close enough to be quite touching his. 

His hands are tense, fingers curled around the fabric of his jeans. 

Three, four beats pass. “It isn’t,” he says—finally. So, so soft, and it makes something small shatter in Tao’s heart. “That isn’t the only time I want you. I want you all the time. I always, always want you.” 

Tao swallows past the resounding curl of hope—stupid, desperate hope—swelling in his gut, crawling up his throat. Because that isn’t enough. Not really. 

“That’s not how you act.”

“I know. I thought—I thought maybe it was...It wasn't, though. I didn't mean to make you feel that way.”

“I’m not a kid, you know.” 

Joonmyun inhales sharply like he’s about to protest, but he doesn’t. 

“It’s 2 years, Joonmyun hyung. I’m not a kid. And it isn’t fair to make me feel like I’m not good enough to—” He curls his fingers into his own thighs, squeezes hard to anchor himself. “I’m desirable. I’m dateable.”

“I know.” 

“And it isn’t fair to hook up with me and then treat me like some dirty little secret or some freshman you just use when you...It isn’t fair.” 

It isn’t okay. 

“I know.” His shoulders curl forward with the admission, slight, tiny, tiny, tiny, but it’s Tao that feels so _small_. So young and stupid. 

“You know, but you still treat me like this.”

“I know.”

An exhale. 

“Please stop saying that.” 

“Okay.” A pause. His hand spasms, and he places it on Tao’s knee, threads their fingers together, squeezes hard once. “I’m sorry,” he tries instead. “I’m really sorry.” 

“We’ve never talked—about it, about us, about....”

“We haven’t.”

Tao feels stupid for how tight his skin feels, how wavery his voice sounds as he stumbles through a pathetic “What are we?”

Abruptly, Joonmyun turns, shifts, sits on his lap, slight, tiny, tiny, tiny, grounding, grounding, grounding, and he cups his face until Tao’s eyes are forced to meet his. Tao feels pinned by the tenderness he finds there. His arms shiver tremble around Joonmyun’s hips. 

“You tell me, Tao,” he whispers. 

“Boyfriends...that would be—would be nice.” He shudders when Joonmyun’s thumb drags over his cheekbone. Heat creeps through his body, and he bites his lips to keep from moaning or begging or saying something more that he shouldn’t. 

And he hates and loves and young and vulnerable and enamored he feels. 

Joonmyun is biting his lip, too. 

“It would be.” 

Joonmyun kisses him, and Tao can’t help but moan as he curls into it. The kiss is as soft, wanting, searching as their first, but less clumsy, less hesitant, teeming, teeming, teeming with emotion. 

“Really nice,” he continues against Tao’s mouth, smiling when Tao chases the words away, swallows them with his parted lips. “The nicest thing in the world.” 

His mouth wanders to the cut of Tao’s jaw, the kiss hard and playfully loud. Tao winds his fingers around Joonmyun’s shoulders, urges him back against the mattress. Joonmyun goes all too willingly, melting and shivering and whispering soft endearments into his skin. He drops another kisse, hotter, wetter, lingering, laughing again as Tao shudders heavily. 

“This is so nice,” Tao says, and Joonmyun groans. Tao loves how shuddery and low it taste on the tip of his tongue. 

He stays when Jongin comes, stops kissing him, but doesn’t pull away, and Jongin wrinkles his nose in disgust, throws his pillow at Joonmyun for being so goddamn _ingratiating_. 

It isn’t a designated family dinner day, but Joonmyun accompanies them to the campus food court, taps his foot against Tao’s through the entirety of their dinner—burgers,fries. He walks them back to their dorm room, kisses Tao softly on the mouth in goodbye, laughs when Jongin and calls him _disgusting_ for the action, reaches out with an exaggerated _Jonginnie_ to 

 

“Not just because he’s nice,” Jongin says when they’ve closed the door behind them. 

And Tao can’t keep from beaming even as he nods. 

“And it’s weird, yeah, but you can tell me if you have any problems or anything. We used to fight when we were younger, and I _always_ won.” 

Tao hums, plops down on his desk, opens his books to study. His phone buzzes. 

_I had a good time today_. 

He presses his face into his shoulder to muffle his squeal. His heart feels so painfully, painfully full, full to bursting. 

 

He tells Kris the next morning on his way out the door. And Kris startles, but grins. 

 

And Tao much prefers this new routine. Study, class, shower, decompress, eat, go on real dates, kiss and touch Joonmyun without having to wonder what it means or how he feels, visit Kris without needing advice, have family dinners, hang out with Jackson. Study, class, shower, decompress, eat, go on real dates, kiss and touch Joonmyun without having to wonder what it means or how he feels, visit Kris without needing advice, have family dinners, hang out with Jackson. Lather, rinse, repeat. 

 

Tao works on his research paper, his English composition essay, problem sets, memorizes formulas, vocabulary, dates, studies, studies, studies, smiles as the English major at the Writing Center—with little jingle bell hair clips this time—comments that he’s gotten better, makes it, makes it, makes it. 

 

Finals pass in an espresso-fueled daze. Jackson and Tao meet up afer every single one, gorging themselves on sinfully indulgent drinks from the campus coffee shop, hyping themselves up through the stress and the despair and dread of it. 

 

Joonmyun, Jongin, and Chanyeol have them, too. The RAs on call, too. 

The entire campus feels empty, too-silent, too-dead, hopeless and terrified and desperate. 

Tao cries in relief when he finishes his last one, collapsing on the grass outside the College of Health and Human Services, face buried in his backpack to hide his grateful, grateful tears. 

He’s done it. His first college semester. 

He’s done it. And he’s done and is okay. 

 

Joonmyun asks if he wants to celebrate together, picks him up on campus, takes him to his apartment, drags him immediately to his room, pins him immediately to his bed. 

And celebration, it apparently means making out on Joonmyun’s bed, melting into the sheets as Joonmyun kisses him with a hungry ferocity that leaves him panting, trembling, aching, aching, aching. 

“Is this my reward?” he asks as Joonmyun’s mouth sears across his jaw, settles on the column of his throat, and oh, it would definitely count. 

But Joonmyun shakes his head, pulls just slightly away to look at him. There are painfully dark circles in the hollows beneath his eyes, exhaustion and fatigue in the breadth of his shoulders, a sickly palor to his skin, the effects of his semester on him, too, but he looms over him like this, all dark-eyed and lush-lipped and achingly handsome, _wanting_ him, rewarding him, congratulating him. 

“No,” he nuzzles against his chin, drags his teeth. “This is me being selfish. Take off your pants.”

Tao yanks them off, shirt, too, balls them up on the edge of the bed, and Joonmyun follows, left in just his underwear, a stripped pair of soft cotton boxers. Tao’s hands map over Joonmyun’s body. He’s beautiful. Disarmingly so. The delicate kind of defined, understated kind of strong, his skin soft, smooth, muscles lean, body seemingly fragile, small, small, small, even smaller like this, perched nearly naked on his lap. 

Desire prickles beneath Tao’s skin, curls in his gut, undoes him when Joonmyun shifts atop him, slots his thigh between Tao’s as he nips along his throat. The drag—more direct now, more desperate now, more devestating now—has them both panting, has Tao fucking quivering with want. 

Tao’s hands stumble to his waist, grip tight, grounding as rocks upwards—the movement sharp, too clumsy with need. Joonmyun hisses, tossing his head back at the friction then grinding more insistently against the aching outline of Tao’s cock. The heat and heft of him bleeds even through the layers of fabric, and he presses down again, languid and hot, neck lolling back, lip catching between his teeth. His fingers anchor on Tao’s waist, small and sharp and teasing as he moves, moans. 

This is him being selfish. This is for him, him, him. 

_Holy shit, holy fuck, oh my G—_

“Fuck Tao. Fuck, _fuck_ me,” Joonmyun urges with a heavy, perfect, perfect shudder. “Fuck me,” he repeats, a raspy, raspy appeal. 

Tao shudders, too, around a shaky, clumsy, clumsy nod. 

“Yes, yes, _yes_.”

“Have you—”

Tao nods, and Joonmyun’s hands are sliding appraisingly down his sides, curling inwards until his thumbs are teasing over the strain of Tao’s erection. Pleasure sparks through his tense, tense body. 

Joonmyun shifts again, teases. His ass drags over Tao’s cock, cock drags over Tao’s stomach. 

“Want you,” he says, his voice low and rough with longing. “Want you so much, Tao.”

Selfish, selfish, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Let me have you.” His hands slide back up, up, up, grazing his stomach, ribs, nipples, throat. His palms are excruciatingly warm, excruciatingly solid. 

Tao nods dumbly, and Joonmyun pulls away to reach in his nightstand for lube, a condom, pops open the bottle for him, and Tao doesn’t tell him that when he’s pictured this—with greater frequency in the past couple of weeks—it’s been the other way, with Joonmyun between his legs, claiming him, having him, ruining him, doesn’t tell him because this makes him choke with want, too, makes his body burn with desire, too. Even more, maybe, knowing that this is how Joonmyun wants it, wants him. 

His fingers tremble, linger, stumble as they slide Joonmyun’s boxers down, trace and stroke him with a soft, ruined sort of wanting. He’s already so hard. 

“Joonmyun. _Hyung_.” he groans. Then “Joonmyunnie hyung.” 

And he’s cupping his ass instead, groaning at the easy, easy way Joonmyun parts his legs, at the hand that Joonmyun twists in his hair to tug Tao upright, closer, closer, closer, the way he coaxes him to touch him, come on, Tao, for hyung. 

The lube dribbles down his fingers, sloppy and slick, and Joonmyun smooths his hair back, drops a kiss to jawline, sharper, the hint of teeth, a breathy hiss as Tao’s finger teases, teases, teases over his rim, slides inside. 

Joonmyun’s mouth parts with a moan, sharper, hotter, wetter, presses his face into Tao’s throat as Tao works him open, presses moans and kisses and tiny, aborted little praises into the skin. 

He’s so unbelievably hot and soft and tight, and Tao whimpers at the delbierate way he clenches around his fingers, quivers with the desire at the little tremor that wracks through Joonmyun’s whole body when Tao curls just right, the fleeting, fleeting graze of his ass, thighs on Tao’s cock, the way his hands tangle in Tao’s hair and tug—so goddamn hard, how his lips part and his eyes scrunch and eyebrows knit as he groans about how Tao needs to fuck him. 

“ _Joonmyunnie hyung_.” 

His fingers fumble on the condom wrapper, and Joonmyun has to help, strokes him afterwards, steadies himself, teases as he drags his ass over Tao’s cock again and again and again. 

And Tao feels drunk on the way Joonmyun’s pale skin flushes, the way sweat beads at his throat before sliding down the contours of his chest, likes how his lips part with the most fond, breathy, breathy moan of Tao’s name, likes the aching, aching, aching slide of warm, soft, soft skin along the pulsing, pulsing heat of his cock. 

“Fuck me.”

Tao chokes on a whimper or a curse or a plea, shudders as Joonmyun’s eyes lock with his. 

There’s something soft in his gaze, his dark, dark, dark eyes so fucking tender and full of emotion as he sinks full onto his cock. And oh, _fuck_ , Tao loves this, loves, loves, loves this, moaning helplessly at the tight, tight heat, briefly immobilized. 

Tao drags a clumsy hand up his spine, tugs him closer. Their lips, teeth, tongues crash. 

And Joonmyun moans directly into his mouth, grinds back, forth, his body fluttering so exquisitely perfectly around him. Tao trembles beneath him, tilts his hips up,thrusting helplessly, and Joonmyun’s responding moan is so rich and dark and heady and awful and perfect, perfect, perfect. 

“ _Tao_.”

Tao fucks up harder, deeper, sharper, and Joonmyun shudders in his arms, fingernails scrambling over his shoulders, his back, thighs quaking around Tao’s.

“Me,” he rasps, shaking, shaking, shaking as he lifts, drops. 

And oh, Tao also loves the clack of his teeth, the salt of his sweat, the tremble of his skin, the heat of his body, the breathtaking way he clenches and clenches and takes and takes, swiveling his hips, bracing himself on Tao’s shoulders, riding Tao utterly _ragged_. 

Trembling, pinned, Tao struggles to keep his eyes open, dazzled by smooth fluidity of his muscless, the dance of shadows and sweat across Joonmyun’s skin, the way that arousal stains Joonmyun’s features, slackens his jaw, darkens his eyes, pinches his eyebrows, ruins, ruins, ruins Tao. 

And much, much, much too soon, orgasm is clawing at the edge of his consciousness. 

Tao warns him a whimper, gropes downwards to stroke him off, and Joonmyun shudders, loses his rhythm briefly, briefly before riding Tao with renewed vigor. 

Tao barely, barely, barely gets him off, watches his entire body tense, feels the sticky spill of his come, balances Joonmyun as he goes limp in his arms, before he’s following, shaking, moaning, moaning, moaning, melting back into the sheets. 

And Joonmyun cradles him tight, holds his hand through the comedown, so warm and soft and handsome and breathlessly naked. Tao skips his fingers along his sweaty, beautiful skin, watches the gorgeously unsteady rise and fall of his chest, feels so full, full, full of affection and contentment and the heady buzz of the afterglow. 

Tao wants to stay like this, in his arms liek this, cradled tight like this, forever. 

But Joonmyun insists on showering—together, sharing quiet, breathless, small, small kisses beneath the warm stream of water—then stumbling back to Joonmyun’s room, Tao with his towel around his waist, Joonmyun in his bathroom. 

Tao smells like Joonmyun’s shampoo, his bodywash, smells like him, or maybe like his, and the scent curls beneath his skin like an embrace, lingers even after he’s pulled on his own clothing. 

Joonmyun orders takeout, kisses him again until the doorbell rings. They eat on the bed, make out some more after clearing away the boxes, changing the sheets. 

Tao stays the night again, falls asleep kissing again, wakes up to kiss him even more—again. And it’s even better than he could have imagined. 

 

Joonmyun’s having an ugly Christmas sweater party that weekend, inviting the Christmas homeless now. And Joonmyun, Tao, Jongin spend hours driving to various thrift stores around campus and even further out, hours sifting through racks, hours trying the best of them on. 

They don’t have Chanyeol, his good luck, but they find some eventually. Matching hunter green with golden tinsel bordering a garrish portrait of Rudolph. 

It’s a couple clothing again, couple clothing for real this time. And Tao smiles as Jongin gripes about how gross they are, how really he can’t believe that he’s lost Tao to _Joonmyun_ of all people, the far inferior Kim. 

There’s no heat in his words, too much warmth in his smile, and Joonmyun’s face splits with the widest, most beautiful, beautiful smile.

**Author's Note:**

> [fic title](https://youtu.be/TznQx5RkBR4)


End file.
